


Seriously.

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Doctor Sexy M.D., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean hunt Leviathan on set of Doctor Sexy, M.D. Dr. Sexy lavishes attention on Dean. Sam is jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seriously.

They were currently in a supply closet. It wasn't just any supply closet, it was the one, the only, the desperately cramped supply closet at Mercy General Hospital. 

"I feel dirty even being in here," Dean said. "It's awesome."

Sam adjusted his scrubs. They were robin's egg blue and too short in the leg. The V of his shirt was also extremely low cut.

"I know undercover was looking like a good idea," he said. "But I can't believe you talked me into this."

Dean didn't even turn to look at him. He reached to shuffle through some boxes on the top shelf and said, "Seriously, dude. Help me find the latex."

Sam focused on calming his mind. He and Dean were pressed up against each other, the space tight and dry and there was the sound of a megaphone on set outside, directing the lighting.

He counted backwards from ten, examining the ceiling panels, and asked, "And why a TV set, you know? Why here? I'm starting to see why you hate California."

Dean smacked some rubber gloves on Sam's chest. "Not anymore," he said, and stretched his own pair onto his hands, snapping them at the wrist with relish. "Let's get this show on the road, kiddo."

 

 

Two days ago, they'd made up by the car and then skipped out of Lily Dale. It had been half-assed as far as their apologies went, and Sam was still morose about Amy and about Dean lying to him, while Dean still felt guilty, made obvious by how he was tiptoeing around Sam's feelings and not making eye contact. Then the call came in from Bobby's end, possible Leviathan in Southern California, on a TV set no less.

"It was only a matter of time before they hit the West Coast," Sam said. "But still, that's real bad, Bobby."

Bobby sighed. "Damn Colorado River. But at least this one'll make Dean happy."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, it ain't just any old TV show, it's Doctor Sexy."

"No shit." Sam watched Dean sling a few bottles of borax into the trunk. "He know this?"

"Not unless you've told him."

Dean wiped his hands off and closed the trunk, then threw Sam a look over his shoulder.

Yeah, it was just a lucky happenstance, but Sam was the one who got to tell him. He kept his mouth shut, though. He went and jerked the passenger door open and slid in, saying into the phone, "Well all right, then. We'll check in soon, Bobby."

"Oh and Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell your brother to get me an autograph."

 

 

  
They'd driven almost a day, but it took Dean until the eleventh hour to wonder aloud what show they'd be crashing. When Sam shrugged and said, "Oh, Bobby said it was some doctor show," Dean choked on his Slim Jim.

They took a room close to set at a crappy motel with a strange trellis inside, decorated with sea shells. Dean whistled a few bars of the Doctor Sexy themesong under his breath while Sam paid in cash and the desk clerk gave them a skeptical thrice-over.

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets, waiting as Dean flipped through some tourist guide pamphlets on the display. The guy sent him another furtive look, and Sam said, "What?"

It came out like a bark, but he stared the guy down anyway. The lady at the cafe in Lily Dale had recognized them. They would probably be doing clean up for months. But the guy only shook his head and snickered.

"You got a real John Travolta thing going on, don't you? Trying to break into the business?"

Sam stared at him and then grabbed the room key.

 

 

 

When they pulled up to the set the next morning, they parked in the guest lot and were ushered in with no fuss. They were given bagels with cream cheese, and told to put on spare scrubs and not to touch anything.

And now they were in the closet.

Going undercover had seemed like a fun idea at the time, and practical, given Frank had burned most of their fakes, and an FBI agent wasn't nearly as believable without their badge. And besides, they had no way of telling who was Leviathan other than squirting borax onto every person on set. This way, they could observe, get in and out as quiet as possible.

Dean waved a hand in front of his face. "Sam. You ready to get back out there?"

"Yeah."

"Now be cool," Dean told him. "They tell us to stand on the red X and smile for the camera, we smile for the camera. They tell us to grab stuff, we grab it. Got it?"

Sam frowned. "I'm cool. I'm totally cool. I can follow directions."

Dean gave him a look. "Yeah, sure you can." and then brushed up against him one last time as he shoved his way out the door with the box of gloves.

They were taller and tanner than the other extras. They stood out like sore thumbs, to Sam's eye, like they were obviously not actors, but a girl just nudged him and said, "Stage fright?"

Sam didn't have stage fright, but the situation was awkward at best. He shrugged.

"I'm Alicia," she said. "You'll do great."

Sam smiled and ducked his head, which always seemed to earn him points. "Thanks."

The director briefed them and the fifteen other extras on where to stand and what the scene entailed, while a girl with a headset and a staff badge reached up to yank at Sam's sideburns. He grimaced and rubbed at his face, saying, "Yeah, those are real."

She left him and Sam looked each of the extras over. They all looked varying degrees of nervous or bored, and a few of them smiled his way. Dean was chatting up the woman to his left.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm just waiting for the big time. I plan to donate millions to charity, but before I can do that, I need to actually make the money. You know how it is."

"What an idealist," she said. "I'm just trying to pay my student loans."

Sam reached surreptitiously into his coat pocket to twist the top nob of the EMF reader. There was a low static and a muted wailing. The guy next to him, who was possibly wearing mascara, checked his own pockets like maybe his cell was ringing.

Sam swiveled in place, pointing the thing at each of the extras, some of whom smiled at him again, distractedly, but the noise remained constant.

A guy with headphones stomped onto set. "Hey! Whose phone is fucking with our sound equipment?"

Sam quickly flicked the EMF off. He rolled his eyes when Dean sing-songed, "Somebody's in trouble."

And that was when Dr. Sexy walked past, at an amble, his spurs jangling with every step. 

Dean didn't look like he'd just died and gone to heaven, because frankly heaven had been crap, but he did look, for lack of a better word, incredibly turned on. Tugging at his scrub neck, he breathed, "Well hello, Sexy."

Steve Basic turned slowly, pivoting on one cowboy boot heel. His stare was intense, Sam could tell even though it wasn't trained on him. Dean took a step back, jostling Sam's shoulder.

"No one has ever used that line on me before," said Steve.

Sam started to laugh, but broke off when Steve gave him a dismissive look and then whipped his head back to take in all of Dean. Sam looked, too: white tennis shoes, light blue scrubs, clipboard clenched between his hands. Dean's bottom lip wibbled.

Steve murmured to himself, "How unique."

And then he was gone, down the fake, hospital hall, past the assembled lighting and camera crew, and over to the make up unit, where a woman began to crimp his hair.

 

 

  
They snuck off during a break when most of the other extras milled about and read or went out for lunch. Sam was up in the rafters, waving around his EMF reader while Dean peeked behind curtains and into boxes of who knows what stage paraphernalia.

"You think there'd be any traces up there?" he called.

The EMF reader stayed constant. "Probably not," Sam admitted. "I'm just trying to be thorough. But they're sea creatures, so...."

"Yeah, probably aren't big on heights."

"It didn't beep over any of the extras," Sam said. "Although I did have to turn it off before I got the crew."

"The camera guy was so pissed," Dean said, and then lowered his voice to mimic: "Whose damn phone is on? Didn't we say? No phones on set, Jesus people."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, but maybe EMF doesn't even pick them up. We're operating on a hunch. This is such a mess."

"We'll figure it out."

That was awfully zen. Sam got back onto the ladder, but on the second step he glanced down to Dean, who had stopped mid-search and was staring into the middle distance.

"So," Sam hedged, gripping the rungs. "Steve Basic."

Dean jerked back into action, lips quirking. "The man's not the character, Sam."

"Sure's acting like it."

"Don't get your panties in a twist."

Sam laughed, but it was the slightest bit bitter. "Believe me, it's not my panties he's trying to twist."

"Well, that's awfully kind of you, your taking an active interest in my love life."

At the mention of love life, having that said out in the open, Sam nearly fell off the tall ladder. As it was, he spent a few moments clinging on for dear life, feeling for all the world the metaphor.

 

 

  
That afternoon felt like a special kind of torture, one that made Sam remember why he actually spent much of his time reading or hanging out online rather than tuning in to any of the number of shows that Dean tended to watch. The bits of plot they were let in on from episode eight of the eleventh season of Doctor Sexy, M.D. were boring as all get out, and each of the scenes was shot in at least ten takes to get all the right angles.

He was exhausted from walking up and down the same stretch of hall, pretending to have a conversation with his fellow intern, a dude named Kyle who looked at him with flat eyes and talked about food like he was even more bored than Sam.

Sam yawned. It was more of a mental flat lining rather than a bone aching, four-hours-digging-up-a-grave sort of fatigue.

"Yes.  _Yes_." When Sam zoned back in, the director was looking him over, it turned out, muttering to the camera guy. "I am loving the sullen intern look."

"That isn't a look," Dean hollered over. "That's just his face."

"Hey, watch it," Steve said. "I won't have you cutting down on morale."

Dean, for his part, tried to look repentant, but ruined it by dragging his eyes away from Steve's face to send Sam a wink.

"No, really." Steve stepped in close and Sam could only just catch what he said against Dean's ear, low. "I could have you demoted."

Dean held his ground while Steve practically nuzzled his ear. "Oh yeah?" he asked. "What's lower than an intern?"

"Just take my word for it, there's lower."

Dean turned that extra, deliberate bit and his gaze grew smoldering. Sam vomited a little in his mouth. He shook his head and turned to stop himself from staring any more obviously.

"I wish we could get to the organ removal," Kyle said. "That's what you always see on TV."

Sam nodded. "Totally, man. Or stunts. I could do stunts."

The guy smiled, which was strangely validating. Maybe he wasn't that boring after all.

The director yelled: "Places, everybody!"

"I'll deal with you, later," Steve told Dean.

"Oh my god, tell me he did not use that line." Sam was muttering to himself, it had come to that.

As Steve stalked away, Dean adjusted his scrubs and said, "The only line I see is that piece of tape on the floor, Sammy. I swear that lady with the hat's going to cut your toes off if you don't take a step back."

Sam moved behind the marker, but that didn't stop him from glaring barely-sheathed daggers at an aptly-named actor who was giving Dean the slow once over before the cameras started rolling.

 

 

 

Dean was asked to shoot extra scenes with Steve because they had undeniable chemistry on camera, end quote. Sam was politely dismissed with the rest of the extras, all of whom let out relieved sighs and spoke up as one about drinks and it being two dollar Tuesday at a local dive.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. Dean clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Well, that fell into our laps."

"Oh, yeah. I'll...you know." Sam nodded to the dark edges of the set. He waved the rest of the extras off with an apologetic shrug and tried for casual as he moved out of the crowd.

Sam had a simple task ahead of him. He had to somehow figure out if any of the crew members was actually inhabited by something other than a human soul, kill it, and voi-freaking-la, avoid future tragic set accidents. He felt a push of nostalgia for the one case they'd had on the set of that movie, way back. Not exactly a simple salt and burn, but easy, manageable.

He waylaid a crew member, who was dragging some equipment, and struck up awkward, interview-style conversation.

"So," he said. "How long have you worked here?"

"Three years," the guy said. He unplugged a few lights and began winding the cords, hand to elbow.

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. "My name is Sam and I have a brother, does that mean anything to you?"

"Not really. Have you been in anything I'd know?"

"No, no." Sam cast about for something else to say. "How do you feel about mythical sea beasts?"

 

 

  
An hour later and a handful of conversations with harried techies down, Sam hadn't seen any evidence of possession or recognition of Sam's face. Leviathan had been relatively upfront about who they were, the times they'd crossed paths, so unless word had spread that they knew how to kill them, Sam figured this sort of direct questioning would probably be best.

Dean and Steve trailed out of costume fifteen minutes after Sam had given up in favor of playing Words With Friends on his phone. Bobby had just lain down a fifty pointer, and didn't that just top Sam's bad day. He looked up in time to note how shoulders brushed and how Dean looked more relaxed, his game face on. Steve was talking more like a normal person, less drawn out syllables, more mumbling, like he had something to say but it was just for Dean.

Dean looked up when Sam cleared his throat. He nodded with a half smile, "Hey, Sammy. Looking all over for you."

"Hey." Then, he did a double take at Steve's skinny jeans and jacket with extraneous zippers.

Dean nodded like yeah, he'd been surprised as well, and walked on ahead. "I'm dry as a chimney, let's get out of here."

All three of them trooped over to the bar.

"How'd it go?" Sam asked.

Steve answered. "He was an excellent intern."

"I got a close up and everything."

"So, Steve," Sam said. "How do you feel about squid?"

Steve was unphased. "Hm. I worry sometimes about mercury levels in seafood."

Dean groaned. "Not another health nut."

By the time they pushed through into a low-lit, rowdy-tuned dive bar situation, it was becoming clear that Steve wasn't nearly as stuck up or as predatory as Sam had assumed. It had Sam relaxing, despite his decision not to like the guy. It rankled, for uncharitable reasons.

They got a few waves when they entered.

"Hey, it's the whole crew," Dean said, high fiving a dude a by the door and Sam nodded to a few of the extras who'd looked up as well.

"So, did you always want to be an actor?" Sam asked, just to make conversation.

Steve ordered and then flashed Sam a dazzling smile. "I was actually pre-law in undergrad."

"Oh, no way."

"Yeah, then I did a hair commercial. And that was it for me. You?"

"I was pre-law as well," Sam said. "But then...yeah, acting. Uh, it's like a calling or something."

Steve passed around some drinks and toasted. "Small world, am I right?"

"Yeah, no kidding. By the way, you...are really different off-set."

"I'm very method," Steve said. "It's important to stay in the zone."

"That's what they're calling it these days," Sam muttered. Dean kicked him under the table.

They finished their first drinks. At least Dean wasn't falling all over himself like he had been at the beginning. The initial awe seemed to have worn off, and now they were two guys who really clicked.

Sam couldn't really relate. He'd never had many friends. Even those few golden years at Stanford where his life had fallen out perfectly in front of him had been undermined by the big reveal, that Brady and a good number of others had been possessed. Nothing was as it seemed.

But tonight, situated in their booth and somewhere between the second and fourth rounds, two of them on Steve, Sam realized that uncomfortable feeling in his chest was the stirring of general goodwill. 

"Gonna hit the john," he said when the thought hit him right in the middle of a story about the fake blood that squirted Steve in the eye last season and some doctor visit while he was still in his costume, the resulting hilarious mix up, Dean's surprised laugh which punched out of him like it was the first time.

Nothing could come of it, of course. Dean made connections despite the constraints of their lifestyle, but that sort of live-in-the-moment approach was difficult for Sam. He'd given up on the idea of friends at some point down the road, and it was for the best.

In the bathroom, in front of the mirror, he splashed water over his face and practiced smiling. Lucifer offered him a paper towel but Sam ignored it and used the hand dryer.

His fellow actors said hey as he made his way back to the booth, where Dean was sprawled back and relating something that had Steve leaning in. The idea of seeing that up close had Sam sidling up to the bar instead. He nodded to Kyle who was sitting alone with a giant plate of wings in front of him.

Sam was impressed. "You seriously dipping those in nacho cheese?"

Kyle dumped what looked like a fifth ramekin of cheese over fried chicken, a pleased smile curling his lips. "Everything is better with nacho cheese."

"I know a guy who wouldn't argue with that."

He leaned on an elbow and signaled to the bartender, holding up two fingers. Someone cleared her throat, and when he glanced over he saw that he'd come up next to the woman he'd talked to in passing earlier that day.

"Alicia, right?"

She smiled. "And you're Sam. The sexy, yet sulky, intern. Those both for you?"

He pulled out a twenty and slapped it on the bar in exchange for the beers. "I am no Dr. Sexy, believe me."

"Is that a yes?"

He paused, then made a decision. Might as well try this social thing, seeing as this was it for the night. He nudged a beer her way. "I wouldn't say no to some company, actually."

She gave him a telling look. "Well, you got it."

This sort of thing would have freaked Sam out a couple years ago, talking with some hot girl he'd barely met—she looked like she had it together, in ways that implied stability and time spent on personal grooming—but this far down the road, that sort of general embarrassment had dissipated, and Sam just fell into easy conversation. 

"So, how long have you been acting?" he asked.

"You mean standing around looking pretty?"

Sam shrugged. "Whatever you want to call it."

"I've been an extra in fifteen shows and one movie." She smiled down at the sticky bar top. "Actually, tomorrow's sort of like my big debut."

"Oh yeah?"

She took a drink before nodding. "Yep. I've always been the equivalent of a backup intern like you saw today, in everything I've been in. You know, no speaking lines, wear scrubs and wander in and out of the shot. But tomorrow we're shooting parts of an episode where I get a kidney stone."

"Congratulations on your health problems."

"Yep. I get three lines, and then, due to tragic complications where another intern is too scalpel happy, I die, but not before pledging to donate my organs."

"Woah, nice."

"Yeah, I get to cry and everything."

"Sounds like a real tearjerker." He clinked their bottles together. "Here's to dying quick and bloody?"

That sort of humor always translated strangely well with non-hunters. Sure enough, Alicia laughed and said, "So what about you? You been in the business long?"

"Well, not really. No. Just started today actually."

"Congratulations. You're in for a rocky ride."

Sam laughed. "Thanks."

There was a pleasant lull in conversation. Some slow country jam spilled out from the jukebox and Sam looked around the bar, at the actors and crew who were mingling in plainclothes. It seemed probably that everyone was undercover.

They ordered another, and it wasn't until Sam saw the bottom of the glass that Alicia leaned in and said, "So, your friend."

"Yeah?"

She waited a beat, looking at Dean and then smiling at Sam."He an aspiring actor?"

Sam shrugged. "Oh, he aspires to a lot of things. But no, not really. Kind of just fell into this job, actually."

She nodded, looking back over Sam's shoulder. "Right, right. So if none of that is acting, then that's just downright flirting."

Sam forced himself to swallow his beer. Only when he was sure he wouldn't choke, he said, "Excuse me?"

"Thought so. You'd better get over there." She punched him in the arm before heading over to join a group by the pool table.

Sam turned on his stool with a slow dread, rubbing his arm. He almost didn't want to see what she'd been talking about, but he couldn't just  _not_ look.

Steve was pressed all along Dean's side. There was a long line of empty shot glasses stretching from one side of the table to the other that had collected over the past half hour, and currently Steve was watching Dean bite into a lime. 

Sam had seen Dean looking more sultry than this, plenty of times, his hands all over whoever it was he was currently groping, but this looked quiet, intimate. They looked like two guys who really dug each other getting steadily trashed in the corner.

He thought about leaving without telling Dean. But even in this situation, where Sam was somewhat justified in getting a cab back without a word, he could see what a dick move that would be. It would be like waving Dean's insecurities in his face, even though he was currently hanging onto some other guy he'd been lusting after for years.

That had Sam stepping up to the booth, flicking his eyes over Steve, who was quiet and flushed.

"Hey, I think I'm going to head out." He watched as Dean blinked and looked at Sam's chest for a second.

Steve's arm was currently wrapped around Dean's shoulder and Sam couldn't help himself. Sam put a hand out and touched Dean's hair. It wasn't something he wouldn't normally do, and Dean looked shocked like he always did after unexpected shows of affection.

"You'll get him back okay?" asked Sam.

Steve gave him a look. "He should go with you."

"Excuse me?"

Steve pulled Dean closer to him, which had Sam ready to growl like a caveman, but it was apparently just to get Dean to stand. 

"Time to go, intern." Steve was drunk, too, but apparently very responsible and didn't want to take advantage. Sam nodded and Steve maneuvered Dean so that he was leaning against Sam's side. "You take care of him," Steve said. "I've got my eye on you."

Sam bristled at the implication that he couldn't take care of his own damn brother, half because Steve didn't have any of the pertinent information that might prove that Sam yeah, sometimes couldn't keep track of his brother.

He gave Steve a curt nod and Dean shrugged him off muttering, "I can freaking walk myself." But then slung an arm around Sam's shoulders and tried to put him in a headlock once they got out to the sidewalk.

 

 

 

When they made it back to the room, Sam got in his flannel pajama pants and then joined Dean in front of the sink. He watched Dean in the mirror, Dean squeezing the end of the toothpaste tube, looking pensive but probably just drunk, his eyes nearly all pupil.

"Snot Steve," Dean told him.

"What isn't?"

"He's not a Leviathan. It would have sucked to kill him."

"Oh."

"By the way," Sam said, mouth working around his toothbrush. "It's cool if you—I mean, do whatever."

Dean elbowed in to grab his own toothbrush and said, "Excuse me?"

"You and Steve." He couldn't keep the disdain out of his voice, even though the guy was great.

Dean scrubbed at his teeth until he was frothing at the mouth. He watched Sam in their reflection and then spit and swished while Sam slowly flossed. Finally, he shook his head.

"Remember the last time you shoved me at someone? Remember how well that turned out?"

Sam was going to be a dick for saying it, but, "So you want to talk about it now?"

"Shut the hell up," Dean muttered. They got into twin beds, and when Dean finally passed out, Sam was short to follow.

 

 

 

It was their second day on set. That morning, Steve had spent a good five minutes examining Dean's intern badge while smoothing wrinkles out of the front of his lab coat.

Now, it was lunch, and Steve had just method acted Dean into a secluded corner where he'd talked dirty to him about sutures while Alicia sent Sam warning looks and Sam tried to mentally count to a million in Spanish.

To say Sam was jealous would be a foolish thing, because there was a case on and one should not let personal feelings get in the way of saving people, hunting things. To say that Sam was jealous would imply that he didn't have better things to worry about, like Leviathan or keeping a tight grip on reality, and it would probably also get you punched in the face.

To say Sam was jealous would be a gross understatement.

He felt frazzled and it was possible Dean wasn't listening to him, but for his own sanity, he had to get this out.

"Look," he said, dropping a cracker back onto his plate. He couldn't eat, not when his stomach was uselessly tying itself in knots. "When I said it was cool with me, I meant—This is hard to put, and I don't really know how to explain, but I meant I wanted you to be happy, you know? I know you've got this...thing...for cowboys and Dr. Sexy and all. And it's cool you get to hang out with your idol or whatever. But you gotta stop."

"Right."

"You've gotta stop flaunting it, dude."

"Mmhm."

"It's hard enough being an extra and trying to find time for this case. If I have to stand by and watch you do...whatever it is you're doing...this whole thing, with Steve Basic, I'm going to lose it. I can't watch it and still do the job."

"Totally," Dean said. He picked a strawberry off the tray and added it to the pile on his plate. When Sam made a displeased noise, Dean finally turned and gave Sam a long, slightly vacant stare, like he was only finally replaying the beginning of the conversation. He held up a hand. "Wait, stop what?"

"Dean!" He gestured widely.

"Okay, chill, I get it. This is seriously bothering you, man?"

Sam let out the breath he'd been holding. "Yes. Yes, it is seriously bothering me."

"Okay, then." Dean resumed picking through the cheese tray.

Sam watched, incredulous. "What, that's it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"No...suggestion I go talk to someone who cares? No complaining I'm being a killjoy?"

Dean skewered a mini-sausage and then took three more. "Look, you want me not to do this sort of shit with Steve in front of you, I won't do it in front of you. So yeah, that's it."

He shoved a mini-burger in his mouth and smiled. Sam thought maybe he should be suspicious, but he was too busy feeling relieved.

 

 

 

This gave rise to something more horrifying than Sam had expected. He talked to Bobby, who thought Sam's asking direct questions to drum up evidence was kind of funny, and who wanted to talk to Dean about his take on it, so Sam wandered the set, looking for him.

"I think he's with Steve Basic," Kyle said. "I watched them go into his trailer."

"Oh," Sam said.

He knew he shouldn't. It could wait.

Then again, they were on a case. Dean had been doing his fair share of snooping around, yeah, looking for anything suspicious, but Sam didn't think that got him off the hook.

But, upon reaching for the trailer door like he was testing for fire, and jerking it open without knocking because he was, apparently, a masochist, he immediately wished he had waited until filming resumed. The scene that he stumbled in on was straight out of the show. Dean was shirtless, sitting at the edge of the bed while Steve, still in his doctor scrubs, was seated behind him, smoothing a hand over his back.

There was a gash on one of Dean's shoulders. Sam took a step forward. "What the hell?"

Dean looked up. "Hey, Sammy."

"What happened?"

Steve was the on who spoke up. "Nothing. We're just practicing for a scene."

"The quiet, yet sexy intern, gets into a motorcycle accident," Dean said. "And Doctor Sexy offers to give him a massage."

"That's—" Sam said. "Is that even allowed on TV?"

"He doesn't watch the show," Dean explained.

"I have some pretty bad memories of it," Sam gritted out.

He knew he should leave, but when Steve's hands smoothed over Dean's lower back a third time, the gesture even more unnecessary than it had been the second, Sam saw red.

"You okay, Sam?"

He had, in fact, made a rather uncharacteristic noise.

"Hey, doc," Dean said. Steve leaned in, attentive. "Got any pills for my partner here? He's really high strung."

"Oh, I don't actually take medication." Steve smiled beatifically. "I believe in natural health and herbal supplements. Medicine that isn't necessarily produced by American pharmaceutical companies. Prescription drugs can really mess you up for life."

"You don't say? Well, lucky I take non-prescription drugs."

When he told Dean to lie down on the bed, Sam's mouth went dry.

"There's a thing I need to—" He made a vague gesture to trailer door, and then stumbled out, tripping quickly down the steps.

Outside, the day was deceptively mild. Cars pulled in and out of the lot and a woman carted three flats of orange Gatorade to craft services. A row of long palm trees made a statement in the distance.

Sam thought about how pissed off he felt, where he used to just feel resigned. Things had changed over the past few years, which is why he wasn't dealing with this well. But it stood to reason, that now that their lives were less apocalyptic and more middle-ground shitty, Dean would go back to how he usually did things, picking people up every few jobs, laying on the charm. Sam just had to get his head around it again.

He leaned against the concrete wall of the building, thinking back. He remembered how he used to get pissed, but managed to stick it out. He'd rage internally over breakfast the next morning while Dean flicked him half-concerned glances over the top of his menu and limited his comments on flexibility or quality, because he knew it inexplicably pissed his brother off. Sam would get mighty sarcastic. Ultimately, they didn't talk about it.

Sam was going to leave now, he really was. But instead, here he was, standing around like he had when they were teenagers while Dean hooked up with some chick, or like when he did research in the car, waiting for Dean's all-clear. It was creepy. No one ever had to know.

He checked his phone and spent five long minutes debating before throwing down a eight-pointer— _lame_ —which was sadly indicative of his current situation.

It felt even more creepy when Dean finally fell out the trailer door, straightening his shirt. He didn't seem surprised to see Sam there, though. Sam ignored the grin, and the way Steve Basic stepped out behind him like nothing had happened.

Dean nodded. "See you later, man."

Sam kept quiet until Steve had walked on ahead, and even then, he tried to keep his voice reasonable. As reasonable as one could, given the circumstances. "Dean, can you explain how we're on the job, but I walk in to talk about the case and you're getting a shirtless massage?"

Dean's expression went guarded anyway. "You think I'm not working the case?"

"All I'm saying is, do you really think we have time for that?"

They made it onto set. Steve went to run lines for the next scene. Sam stolidly did not look Dean's way, even though Dean was stepping in front of him, trying to make eye contact.

"Sam. What's really eating you?"

Sam nodded to Kyle, who gave a short wave, but then Dean flicked him in the forehead. Sam batted his hand away.

Dean said, "Look. I was just pumping Steve for information."

Sam's stomach turned. "I told you, I don't even want to know—"

"Asking him questions under the excuse of practicing for a scene, like he told you. Dude," Dean said, low, so none of the other extras could hear. "He's our best bet. He's been around these guys forever, so he'd be the best person to ask if any of them have changed behavior recently, or if he's seen anything weird. I don't know why you're so adverse to asking him for help."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Did he say anyone was acting suspicious?"

"Well, no, but he said he'd think about it some more."

Sam scoffed. "Yeah, whatever."

"Oh, come on, Sam."

Dean had stepped in close so no one could overhear, and was looking up at Sam like Sam was the one being unreasonable. He looked like he was about to grab Sam by the shirtfront, or just have it out right there, with a few of the extras side-eying them already and Alicia giving Sam a blatant thumbs up—Sam frowned at her—but then they both startled when the director shouted.

"You! Sasquatch!"

How did everyone— Sam turned. "Yes, sir?"

"Get in the elevator."

Sam looked around at everyone else, then to the elevator which was held open with a stick, then back to the man in the A's hat. "Excuse me?"

"Just go get in it. We need some B-reel."

Dean gasped, and not ironically. "Holy shit. The elevator."

"What...does that mean something to you?"

"Burning daylight here, guys!"

"We're inside," Sam muttered, but got moving when the director waved him toward the end of the hall.

He stood in the elevator, feeling extremely hesitant. All eyes were on him, which was disconcerting, as was the fact that Dean, apparently, did know why he was there. That was never a good sign.

The director yelled, "Good! And you, glasses! Get in there, too!"

Dean's eyes bugged out as a dark-haired guy stood a little straighter. He looked pleased at having been singled out, and almost jogged as he came over to join Sam.

"Yes, perfect!" the director decided. "Instant chemistry! Fantastic!"

 

 

 

  
The day had been a bust. Most extras and crew were sent home at nine. Sam wished Alicia luck remembering her lines for her kidney scene and then he and Dean left, yawning, both generally frustrated.

Dean ran in to get hot dogs from 7-11 which they ate back at the motel, leaning back against the headboards of separate beds while an Indiana Jones movie with all the violent parts censored out offered background noise. Sam made half-hearted attempts to commune with his new laptop.

"Maybe we should just touch everyone on set with borax," Dean finally said.

Sam sighed. "Or maybe the Leviathan was never there to begin with."

He closed his laptop with a click he wasn't yet used to, and stood. He went into the bathroom, which had a bathtub no one would ever dare use and looked at himself in a mirror with a crack in it. He grabbed the floss and said, louder, "You know, it hadn't occurred to me how much...well, acting, we'd be doing here."

He could barely make out Dean's response, a mumbled, "If that was acting in the elevator today, you deserve a statue."

Sam stuck his head around the door. "What does that mean?"

Dean wouldn't look at him. Sam was almost glad about it. He remembered how the dark haired guy's mouth had felt, hot and wet, the kiss more wanton because there had been at least thirty people and a camera watching as the director ordered him to climb Sam like a tree. Cue elevator doors closing. It had been pretty funny actually.

Anyway, it was just one more awkward moment to shove back into the recesses. Like a natural and fortuitous end to the still moment between them, Dean's cell rang.

"Hiya, Steve."

Sam started flossing, rolling his eyes in the mirror at his gut reaction, but then Dean's tone changed, and he said, "We'll be right there. Get as far away as you can."

And then they were in the car, skidding down the dark road, and then they were pulling into the lot. Then, they were out of the car, bottles of borax in their pockets and flashlights on.

"I'll go around front," Dean whispered. "If you find Steve...."

"Dean," Sam said. "It's been ten minutes. It's possible—"

"I know. Let's just go."

They split.

That was the last Sam saw before he was flying through the air, registering the sound of a sick crack that may or may not have been his own head against the wall.

 

 

 

He woke up shivering and groggy, his cheek pressed into cold concrete and dirt was muddy in his mouth. His head was pounding.

"Fuck." It took a second for him to sit up all the way, and another during which he pressed his fingers to his temples and got ahold of his bearings.

He was in the parking lot. He'd been racing to help Steve Basic, who'd said there'd been a murder and who was probably dead by now, but then Sam had been knocked out. He was armed. He had a bottle of borax in his pocket and his gun, which would be useless but comforting anyway. He wiped at the back of his head and felt fresh blood, which meant he hadn't been out long.

He dragged himself to standing and then forced himself to run. He had to find Dean.

Jogging around outside was necessary but a waste of time. He checked the dumpsters, the whole perimeter of set, the car. He had even knocked on Steve Basic's trailer door, thinking maybe, just maybe—but the momentary hesitation had been foolish, because no one was there.

Once inside the soundstage, he jerked the make up room door open and then looked in on costume. Both empty. He started in on the hospital set.

There were five dead bodies in the hall. The crew. He looked around wildly and then tried a door. He kicked it open to reveal a darkened hospital room, blinds drawn, heart beepy machine unplugged, a chair, and a bed. Alicia was in it, stomach ripped open.

It would hit him later, the horror. For now, though, Sam spent a good minute being distantly appalled that the scene she'd been excited about had merged with reality, and also how most women he met seemed to give him advice and then die shortly after. It was a damn shame.

He heard a footfall behind him and spun in place, hand going to his pocket.

"It's you!"

"Sam Winchester." Kyle, the boring yet sexy extra, flipped on the lights, effectively stepping out of the shadows like a TV villain. His face was gleaming like he'd been sweating, or maybe like he was exuding some sort of cephalopodic goo.

And he was wearing gloves, which were covered in blood.

"Well," Sam said. "I'm assuming you're not actually a struggling actor."

"Apparently not." Kyle took a step forward and Sam took a comparable step away. The door was behind him, Sam's back to the fake window. "I hadn't expected the two of you."

Sam felt the blood drain out of his face. "You can see him, too?"

"Yes, Dean and I have already had the pleasure. He came to help you, which was cute."

"Oh." Sam let out a slow breath and glanced to the corner of the room, where Lucifer shrugged. He looked back to Kyle. "Where the hell is Dean?"

"Sam, Sam, Sam." Kyle took another step and Sam fingered the borax in his pocket. "Your brother is the least of your concerns right now."

Sam lunged out, splashing borax in an arc.

It hit its mark, but nothing happened except for Kyle bending down to pat his face with the corner of a bed sheet.

"Sam," he said, eyes blank. "You're going to have to do better than that. Oh wait, that was your only option. Which means I win."

"You've got something on you," said Sam. "Something that counteracts borax."

Kyle gestured to his face and neck. "Vaseline. Nasty stuff, but necessary. You think we didn't hear you'd found a weak spot? We're nothing if not omnipresent, omnipotent, omnivores."

They were circling each other. Sam still had the squeezy bottle of borax brandished, like he was about to throw more at any second, but he was scrambling for options.

"Now, Sam. Come a little closer so I can harvest your organs."

"Is that what you're here for?" Sam asked. He watched Lucifer passing the tray of medical equipment, which he pointed to and then winked.

Kyle said, "Doctor Sexy is free to take any organ he pleases. That's mighty enticing."

"The hospital in Sioux Falls," Sam realized. "That's what that was about? Infiltrate hospital workers and then eat the patients?"

Now that he'd circled around, he backed up a step so he was pressed against the medical table, one hand fumbling behind him, fingers knocking scalpels and tongs.

Kyle licked blood off one finger.

"That will take years," Sam said. "And it will be messy. We're onto you." He kept talking until his fingers brushed a plastic tube. "What are you really after, huh?"

"After?" Kyle laughed. "Well, the entire planet, for one. Your waters are full of the most interesting things. Nothing like the sea when the Earth was new, and much more delicious than what lurks in the stagnant lakes of Purgatory."

"And why come to land at all?"

Kyle smiled. "Think of it as evolution."

Sam kept the questions coming. "Are you the only Leviathan here? On the set."

"Of course I am. As if I need backup. No one can hurt me. You've just proved that. So whatever scalpel you're trying to grab for isn't going to protect you, you must know that by now."

"Pretty blunt."

Kyle shrugged, stepping forward. "We never claimed to be poets."

He lunged. Sam swung out and stabbed him in the neck with a syringe of borax.

 

 

 

  
He didn't clean up the pile of black goo. He should have, because the stuff was probably toxic in more ways than one, but he couldn't even think, there was this panic building up behind his eyes. Dean could be—the Leviathan had seemed pretty certain Dean was out of the picture, it didn't even bear thinking about. He just had to find him.

He took off at a sprint, checking all the remaining hospital rooms, but each time his panic doubled. Each of the rooms was empty.

When he reached the end of the hall, he kicked open the final room door, all but given up, his last burst of hope.

Dean was just waking up, groaning on the floor. Steve Basic was cradling his own wrist and looking shocked.

Sam knelt at Dean's side in an instant. He pushed him to the hospital bed, and then looked to Steve. "Hey!" he said. "Hey, Steve, look at me, man. Are you okay? Is it just your wrist?"

Steve stared at him for a second longer until Sam snapped and got his attention. "Uh, yes. I mean, no, nothing else is broken, just my wrist."

"Okay, can you sit tight while I help him? You're going to be okay."

Steve nodded. "There was a man—"

"I know," Sam told him. "I took care of it."

Steve nodded and slid down to lean against the wall with his arm lain across his knees.

"An extra," Dean slurred as Sam checked him over with a quick brush of hands. There was blood all over his back. "I just came to, not concussed. He knocked you out, but I distracted him."

"It was terrible, I thought he was dead," Steve babbled. "Sam, do you—do you need any help? I'm not a doctor but I could find some bandages."

"No, I've got this."

Sam tugged at the bottom of Dean's t-shirt until he raised his arms so that Sam could pull it off. He let out a breath. Dean had the tendency to get banged up but not in a permanent way. This time was no different. It was just a cut.

Dean leaned on his knees with his elbows while Sam reached back to the drawer, surprisingly well-stocked given that it was a set, and pulled out supplies he needed to stitch Dean up and also an antibacterial pad, ointment and a gauze bandage. He ran a hand up the back of Dean's neck, as a sort of warning, a quieting motion, and then started in on wiping away the excess blood.

"Just gouged my back against the counter," Dean mumbled. "Sam, borax, it didn't—"

"I know," Sam said. "Got it taken care of. Syringe."

He could feel Dean shudder through his hands. "Nice thinking."

Sam took his time.

Before he began stitching, Dean pulled out his flask and took a few deep drinks. Sam made the stitches even and tight. He wanted to make sure this healed all right because the possibility of going to some doctor or a free clinic was less feasible now that they had less cards, more notoriety.

"Are you guys cops?"

Sam had forgotten Steve was there.

"Uh," Dean said. "Something like it. Just don't worry about it."

"Did you kill that guy?"

Sam cut off the thread and then taped gauze over the cut. He tapped Dean's shoulder and Dean put his shirt back on, stiffly.

Sam looked at Steve. "He wasn't a guy. He was an ancient sea beast from biblical times."

Dean stood and offered Steve an arm up. "Sorry about this. Just don't worry, okay?"

It was kind of sweet, the way Dean was treating Steve like a civilian. Sam suddenly didn't feel jealous, not in the slightest.

 

 

 

  
They drove Steve to the emergency room.

"Thank you," Steve said, standing uncertainly on the curb under the neon lights, holding his wrist. "I'm still not certain what happened, but I think you saved the show."

"Don't mention it."

"All right then. If you ever want to play sexy intern to my sexy doctor again, it would be an honor."

The joke fell a little flat, but Sam was impressed that the guy wasn't too shaken up. Dean smiled, a real smile. "That seriously makes my year, man. Although that's not hard to do."

"Doctor," Steve said.

Dean nodded. "Doctor."

"You too, Sam. Keep in touch."

One last wave, and they drove off.

"He's a cool guy," Dean mused.

"Yeah." The LA lights seemed less obnoxious than when they'd first gotten there, but that didn't change the fact that he wanted to get out of this town.

"And you," Dean said, minutes later and slowing as they reached the motel. "Are really pissy."

Sam snorted. He just wanted to take a shower and sleep.

They pulled into the parking lot, but before they get out of the car, Dean said, "About that."

"Huh?"

Dean turned to him. He still looked pale from being knocked out, but he was looking at Sam, for what felt like the first time in days. Sam had this jump in his chest region that was probably just relief urging him to do something ill-advised. He ignored it.

Dean said, "Now that the case is over, can you tell me why you're being such a freak lately?"

Sam sat back. "A freak. Yeah."

"Oh, you know what I mean."

"You let him—" Sam motioned with both hands. Dean just stared, frowning, like he was actually confused as to what Sam's groping motions could be in reference to.

"You gotta breathe, man."

"I am breathing," Sam said, but made a concerted effort to do so. "You let him...you know."

"No, Sammy. I really don't."

"You let Steve Basic, not a real doctor by the way, give you a weird massage in his trailer. He had his hands all over you. He was pretending to give you stitches! That is really weird."

Dean frowned. "Dude, you stitch me up at least once a month. More, even. You did tonight, if my memory serves."

Sam wrinkled his forehead, trying to figure out how to explain without using any key words to give himself away, because if Dean didn't know by this point, he was never going to. "Yeah, I know, but—Okay, fine. But last night, at the bar."

Dean nodded. "When you ditched me to hang out with wannabe actors?"

"Sure, whatever. So, you were drinking."

"And?"

"Together."

Dean frowned and shook his head, but the motion slowed, until he started smiling. "Oh come on, I ask you to drink with me all the time."

"Not like that, Dean."

Dean stared blankly at him. "Uh, yeah like that. I try to get you trashed literally all the time. How is that different?"

"You were all staring at each other, taking shots and not talking and just like, in your own little...world..." He had to stop talking. He got out of the car and slammed the door. Dean followed. "You know what, never mind. This is really ridiculous."

"Sam. Seriously, man. I don't know how else to put it, except what I already said: how is that different?"

They were at the door. They were through the door. Sam was thinking about it but not thinking about it, brain circles.

Dean was maneuvering him against the table. He said, "I'm not sure I—"

"Sam."

Dean grabbed him by the front of his shirt and it was like the elevator all over again, but this was Dean, his brother.

Sam couldn't meet his eyes for a second, but when he did, he didn't doubt anything. But he had to ask: "Seriously?"

Dean laughed and stepped in closer. "Seriously."  



End file.
